


the conversation between your fingers and someone else's skin

by thedisassociation



Category: Elementary (TV), Warehouse 13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisassociation/pseuds/thedisassociation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helena Wells meets Joan Watson in a bar, of all places. What follows is something like normality. [Helena Wells/Joan Watson, implied Myka/Helena at times]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm collecting some of the Helena/Joan ficlets I've been posting on Tumblr and putting them here in one story. Each chapter will be its own self-contained work.

She meets Joan at a bar of all places. For the night, she'll know Joan as Giselle, a beautiful woman who will buy her a beer in between rounds of scoping out a shady group of men in the corner (Joan is not as sneaky as she thinks she is, and so Helena will notice that her visit in this bar as a purpose unrelated to drinking and more to do with spying on whoever those men are). Helena doesn't even like beer but Giselle has a kind smile that almost belies her immense intelligence, which Helena will discover later.

They talk for a bit and they drink just a little. Helena tries to forget that she is running from everything and even though GIselle looks at her like she knows Helena is a women trying to get away from her past, she only asks if they can exchange numbers. And Helena is almost able to forget.

A man arrives shortly thereafter, rushing Giselle away outside. The suspicious men in the corner stand up and Giselle exits, casting a glance back at Helena over her shoulder. And then she's gone.

* * *

Giselle texts her a couple of days later, asks her if they can have coffee. Before she can think about it too hard, she agrees. Myka is a fountain of encouragement, naturally. Claudia calls her an idiot.

Over coffee, Giselle skirts questions of what she does for a living and Helena skirts questions of what she used to do before she came to New York. It's a game they both know they're playing. Helena wears dark skinny jeans and a white button-up beneath a dark vest and watches the way Giselle's eyes trail down her body, almost embarrassed to be caught looking, almost embarrassed to have been looking at all. Giselle has been with few women, she explains when Helena gives her a questioning look, and she is still learning how to let herself want what she wants.

Her name is a lie and their talk is made of half-lies and buried truths, but she is honest about some things, at least. Her fingers on Helena's wrist are light and her smile is warm and these are truths that Helena will accept for now and return in kind.

* * *

They have coffee a few more times and Giselle gradually relaxes. She receives texts constantly (from her inquisitive roommate, she explains) but ignores them, choosing to look at Helena instead. She is a striking beauty and it has been a long time since Helena allowed herself to enjoy such a thing when it is not embodied in a woman other than -- (she stops herself; she will not think of these things). She is intelligent, too. She used to be a surgeon, she explains, fingertips running over the back of Helena's hand gently. She is witty and does not abide nonsense.

Helena used to be a forensic scientist, she explains, and it seems to grab Giselle's interest. Helena tells her of solving crimes, solving puzzles, mixing stories from Boone with stories of the Warehouse while omitting certain details here and there. She lets Giselle think all of these investigations happened in Boone, not noticing that Giselle can read her well enough to see the difference in her demeanor when she speaks of some cases, the way her entire countenance changes.

When she talks to Myka next, three coffee dates under her belt and an upcoming dinner date, Myka says that she sounds incredibly happy (and maybe Helena's gushing a bit but she hasn't felt so alive in such a long time). She's happy for Helena, that she's making a place for herself in the world outside the Warehouse. She sounds earnest, if a little hurt, and Helena tries to ignore the way her tone pulls at Helena stomach, forces a knot low in her belly that threatens to overtake her. Myka says something about "getting lucky" that Helena doesn't fully understand. This is what Myka wanted, she reminds herself, and lets herself think of Giselle. She is surprised that she does not feel guilty for these feelings.

She doesn't feel guilty later that evening either, when she has Joan pressed up against the front door to the brownstone. It's Joan now, not Giselle, as Joan was finally able to admit her falsehoods over dinner. A consulting detective with the NYPD, undercover as a woman named Giselle starting that night at the bar where they first met. It answers some of Helena's questions but she is distracted thinking of how Joan's name seems to fit her so well. She spends dinner saying Joan's name often, testing the way it rolls off of her tongue and getting used to calling the woman before something new. Joan apologizes honestly and Helena forgives her easily, licking her lips before she says Joan's name again and watching the way Joan's eyes flicker down to her lips before she meets Helena's eyes again.

Helena smirks. She has missed testing the waters with someone unknown to her, doing little things that in her time would have been potentially scandalous but here are commonplace. She enjoys making women (and men) squirm with a hand on their arm, fingers brushing over a sensitive spot. She takes her time licking her lips, biting them, drawing attention just there. She moves in a little too close, angles her head so that when she speaks, her breath is warm and fleeting over an ear or a neck.

The end the night outside Joan's home, having walked the city streets hand-in-hand. Once, Helena would have as presumptuous to seduce her way inside and into bed. But time and pain have dulled her senses a bit. She is not seeking that, not tonight, not from this woman.

She kisses Joan good night just outside the door, following the example she's seen a hundred times in popular culture. Joan meets her kiss with a hand on her back, hesitant at first but stronger, more firm and demanding when Helena leans into her, fingers threading through dark hair so unlike the messy curls she's dreamt of. She loses all thought of anything but this moment when Joan pulls her impossibly closer, a skilled tongue brushing over her lower lip. She groans.

The door opens and Helena has the good grace to look embarrassed at being caught "making out like teenagers" as the phrase goes.

Joan glares at the man who's interrupted them, her hands now on Helena's hips. "Go away, Sherlock," she says.

Helena makes the connection between the name Sherlock and Joan's roommate. He looks entirely too pleased with himself, smirking as he stands in the doorway.

"The rest of the neighborhood gets to enjoy the show," he says matter-of-factly. There’s a teasing quality to his tone that takes the bite away from his comment.

Joan says nothing at first but Helena feels her fingernails dig into Helena's hips a little.

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" the man asks.

Helena can feel his eyes studying her. He has the good grace not to leer at her but he is observing her, taking her in and trying to pull her apart. Joan said once that this is what he does. He's an amazing detective, the best, in part because he is able to see what no one else does. Helena is not so easily read.

"Sherlock," Joan starts, "this is Helena Wells. Helena, this is Sherlock Holmes, my annoying partner and even more annoying roommate."

Helena, one hand around Joan's waist, holds her free hand out to shake Sherlock's. "It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nods first, shaking her hand. At a look from Joan, he adds, "And you as well. Would you like to come in for tea?" he speaks stiltedly, like he is unused or out-of-practice in small talk and social etiquette. She supposes his attempt is Joan’s doing.

Helena looks at Joan in question. She would like to come in, but not for tea and not with Sherlock present. On the other hand, doing so might put her in Sherlock's good graces and since he and Joan are close, it would help her to be on his good side if she and Joan are to continue seeing each other.

It's a minefield that Helena does not know how to navigate. She hasn't had much practice dating in this century and she is embarrassed to find that there is still so much she has to learn. She practically sighs.

Joan reads her well, even though she barely moved, stiffening only a little in Joan's arms as she thought. "Just tea," Joan says knowingly, "tea and conversation."

Joan's hands leave her hips, one of them slipping into Helena's hand, pulling her inside. She presses a single kiss to the corner of Helena’s mouth. "And we'll kick Sherlock out after the tea, okay?"

Helena is nodding even as she enters the brownstone, trailing behind Joan. She still has much to learn about the woman holding her hand, too. And she is pleasantly surprised at the warmth that blossoms inside her at the thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Joan is starting to think that she’s made a horrible mistake. Sherlock Holmes and Helena ‘HG’ Wells should never have met. They’re too much alike, both eccentric English geniuses in their own rights, and normally she appreciates it about them — Sherlock’s intellect has brought justice to so many people and Helena’s intellect is dizzying and practical — but they’re starting to drive her crazy. She’s banished them to the kitchen and set down rules and tried to keep them busy separately, but still they make time to tinker and experiment and debate, often well into the night and into the next day.

She supposes she should be happy for them — Helena doesn’t know many people in New York yet and it’s rare that Sherlock meets someone who can match wits with him — but she’s actually starting to miss her girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

It’s a loaded word for her, one that she didn’t expect to ever use in a romantic sense. But she can’t find another word more fitting to describe Helena’s place in her life, at least not one that would be appropriate in public. They haven’t even ever really put a name to what they are. They just kind of are. And it suits them.

Mostly.

Right now, Joan is kind of feeling like a third wheel for Sherlock and Helena’s mad scientist routine.

She enters the kitchen to find them both leaning over a series of schematics, arguing about something. For a woman who’s never earned a degree, Helena is an incredible engineer. Joan wonders how she’s never been snatched up by some government agency or world order.

Sherlock is muttering something to himself and Helena is looking at him smugly, a look that says, “I’ve been doing this since long before you were even born” even though they’re about the same age (as far as she can tell).

“Guys?” Joan asks. Sherlock continues tracing his finger over the papers in front of him but Helena looks up at her, hair pulled back in a messy bun, all bright eyes and a soft smile that is just for Joan. She looks earnest and open and happy and it takes Joan a second to catch her breath and then remember that she’s maybe sort of mad at Helena for ditching her to hang out with Sherlock all the time.

“I’m sorry, darling, did we wake you?”

Joan shakes her head. “No, I’m about to go to bed, though,” she says, moving closer to the kitchen table. Her fingers itch to reach out and touch Helena, and she is still learning that she can give in to her desires, so she rests a hand lightly on Helena’s hip. “It’s late,” she says.

Helena nods, directing Sherlock towards a different paper for a moment before looking at Joan. “We’ll try —”

Joan knows what she’s about to say (“We’ll try not to get too loud”) and cuts her off before she has a chance to finish. “I think you should come to bed, too,” she says, pointedly looking at Helena, saying a million things without saying a word. It’s the kind of look she gives Sherlock when he’s deliberately ignoring social cues. She’s surprised when it works on Helena, too.

“Right,” Helena murmurs, releasing her dark hair and running a hand through it.

Joan gets Helena halfway to the door before she stops and turns around. “You, too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her but grudgingly agrees to go to his room at least. It’s something and Joan’ll take it.

Later, when everything in the brownstone is quiet, the room cloaked in darkness but for the streetlights trying to peak through the curtains, illuminating only the faintest outlines of their bodies, Helena pulls Joan close and kisses her lightly, a soft brush of even softer lips. Her legs are tangled up with Joan’s and her fingertips trace light patterns over Joan’s hip. The blanket is wrapped around them. It is warm and safe and comfortable and Joan sighs against Helena’s lips because how could she have denied herself this for so long. (In reality, it wasn’t that long that she denied herself this, but it felt like ages to her.)

“I’m sorry, darling,” Helena says for the second time that night. But this is whispered against Joan’s neck, quiet and reverent and only for Joan.

Joan shakes her head, shifting, an arm around Helena’s waist and a hand flat against Helena’s lower back. “I don’t want to be one of those demanding girlfriends,” she says back. (There’s the g-word again. Girlfriend. She waits with bated breath for Helena’s reaction. Helena’s reaction is to kiss the space above Joan’s collarbone.)

“I’ve missed you,” she practically whispers, quiet and reverent and only for Helena. “That’s all.”

“I —” she feels Helena suck in a breath more than she hears it, feels it in the way Helena’s body stiffens for a moment, her shoulders rising just a minute amount, and then Helena releases it and the tension leaves Joan’s body. “I have a tendency to get lost,” Helena says honestly, forehead pressed to the skin above Joan’s heart as their bodies face one another, a hand gripping Joan’s hip now. “I lose myself in my work quite easily,” she goes on.

She says this first — that she gets lost — and she says this second — that she gets lost in her work. The phrasing, the choice of first words and last words is not, as it were, lost on Joan. There are the things that she says aloud and the things she doesn’t and Joan hears all of them. What Helena doesn’t say — she gets lost in herself, in her past, and present, and future — is what rings out the loudest in the silence of the barely-lit bedroom.

Joan presses a light kiss to the top of Helena’s head, running her hand down Helena’s back, pulling her somehow impossibly closer. She feels Helena’s hand tighten on her waist, a desperate tug closer and closer until there is nothing left between them but the sound of their breathing and the million things neither of them is sure how to say.

“I had a daughter once,” is how Helena starts.

“Tell me about her,” is how Joan starts.

And by morning, the only thing between them is the sound of their breathing.


End file.
